Part
12.
At the
doctor's words, the Padrone turned around and hissed with a stern look:
-The
hospital will come here!
He cast
such a cruel glare at the doctor, and his voice sounded so firm, that the
doctor could not utter a word in return and went pale with fear.
The
Padrone would have brought the whole city into his house immediately rather
than let a wounded man be taken from his estate, only to become the talk of the
country—that in the estate of such a renowned man, a pathetic, downtrodden
gardener had been treated like a dog.
However,
when he had stumbled upon Dada in the workshop, he did not seem quite so
downtrodden then.
Who was
this man, and what was he hiding? Why did he wear such a mask, hiding behind
the shadow of a wretched old man?
A
thousand thoughts troubled the Padrone, but now was not the time for thinking.
He had to act in such a way that there would be less for people to talk about,
both inside and outside the estate.
He
gathered only a few of the most trusted servants, had the guest room prepared,
and categorically warned everyone to hold their tongues, otherwise, they would
pay with their lives. The loyal servants had always stood by their strict but
kind master, yet he still could not fully trust any of them.
Dada
was sleeping so soundly that he did not hear anything. He had been very happy
about the arrival of snow. While caressing the snowflakes drifting in through
the window, his fingers had nearly frozen together.
The
maidservant could barely get the girl, who was agitated by the arrival of the
first snow, to close the window in the freezing room.
Dada
did not wait for the table to be set and headed straight for the servants'
dining room. Later, she had planned to paint the gardener, if only to turn last
night's lie into truth. After all, she had wanted to do this for a long time,
and she had long since stopped spying and drawing in secret.
The
servants greeted her warmly, as always; Dada had dined with them many times
before, never looking down on anyone and feeling equal with everyone.
She
hadn't even entered when she noticed the hair clip she had seen in the
gardener's hut on the head of the cook's assistant. Delighted by this
discovery, she naively pointed her finger, as if she wanted to announce to
everyone, "I recognized whose it is!" The maid immediately understood
what Dada wanted to say and turned crimson with fear, though no one noticed
because she was busy near the fire and her face was already flushed from the
heat. She was terribly agitated and tried to hide as deep into the kitchen as
possible. It was a good thing her husband wasn't there too, otherwise, who
knows what could have come of this?
Most of the servants did not even know what had happened
the night before, though if the maid with the hair clip had known about the
gardener, she would certainly have blamed her husband for murdering her lover.
Meanwhile, in the deeper recesses of the kitchen, the
servants were becoming agitated, moving in and out with troubled expressions.
Dada heard whispers several times and saw them shushing each other, but only
she noticed their strange behavior; others did not even pay attention, as
everyone was buried in their own work.
At first, Dada thought she was imagining it, perhaps they
weren't whispering at all, but when they glanced at her quietly a few times,
she began to wonder. Could they be plotting something against the Padrone?
Because Dada knew them well; they were among the most loyal of the servants,
and such whispering and pacing from them boded something.
Dada turned her back and gradually inched toward them.
She offered to help the cook and ended up sitting right near them. She acted as
if she didn't hear anything, yet she still managed to eavesdrop on their
conversation.
It was amazing. For some reason, they were mentioning the
gardener.
Could she have heard it wrong?
Perhaps she was mistaken, and they weren't targeting the
Padrone, but the gardener?
But when she overheard more clearly that the Padrone
himself was investigating the attack on the gardener from the night before, she
jumped up in horror and ran straight toward the gardener's hut.
In one of the guest rooms of the Padrone's house, located
at the very end of a long, secluded corridor, they set up a hospital ward and
moved the gardener there with great care.
The Padrone ordered him to be photographed, first with
his beard, and then freshly shaven. He sent trusted people everywhere to find
out about the gardener's past life.
He could not forgive himself for not finding out sooner
who he had let into his household. His heart was filled with anger; whoever it
might have been, even if sent by his sworn enemy, he still did not want this
young man to become a victim of such treacherous murder in his estate.
"Hmph... a young man disguised as an old
gardener?!"
The Padrone was furious.
"As long as no harm comes to Dada. I don't even care
about myself anymore! Who are they? Who has attacked my home?!"
A thousand chaotic thoughts did not confuse the Padrone;
on the contrary, they made him more alert.
He provided the gardener with every condition in the
house, in order to save him first, and at the same time, to cut off any
connection with his own people—those from whom he had been sent. He had to
corner him and investigate thoroughly to find out who was undermining him.
Dada burst into the guest room just as they were changing
the wounded gardener’s bloody bandages. Seeing such a scene, she had the same
reaction as when she had first seen the gardener's bloodied face.
It was difficult to restrain the girl, and it took quite
a while to calm her down; she, too, became someone who needed looking after.
The doctor had to set up an IV for her as well, and now they had two patients
in the room.
The exhausted and drained doctor tended to one and then
the other. Even the specially hired caretakers were worn out, and the Padrone
hovered over everyone. He wouldn't give anyone a moment's rest, keeping his
ears pricked at all times, hoping that the gardener, in his current state,
might let something slip—perhaps even mention a name.
The severely wounded gardener was still fighting for his
life. Dada slowly recovered from her mysterious state and actively got involved
in the work. She barely gave the caregivers a chance to work properly, trying
to do everything herself.
The Padrone was terribly worried; he had to separate Dada
from the gardener somehow, but how? The girl would not leave his side; she even
learned how to administer injections, she could already change the bandages
with ease, and she kept a strict eye on the service staff.
More than three weeks had passed. The gardener gradually
regained consciousness. He could barely lift his heavy eyelids, and the first
person he laid eyes on was Dada, who was curled up and sleeping in the armchair
right next to him.
She seemed even more beautiful and charming to him now.
The gardener smiled slightly, though he was so weak he couldn't even lift his
head, and as soon as he moved, he felt a terrible pain in his left side and
groaned heavily. At the sound of the moan, Dada opened her eyes wide. Seeing
that the gardener had regained consciousness, she hugged him so tightly with
joy that she inadvertently pressed against his wound, and the gardener groaned
once more from the pain. Dada realized her mistake and looked at the gardener
with teary eyes.
Ugo smiled:
- It's okay, it will pass... soon... very soon... we will
run together... you'll see... - he said to the worried girl in a muffled voice.
The Padrone was in his study, raging with fury. He hadn't
found out anything about the gardener's past; neither in the city nor in its
surroundings did anyone know such a beggar, nor anyone by the name of Ugo.
It was as if he had emerged from the ground, and when he
was told that the wounded man had regained consciousness, he nearly ran up the
stairs.
"Before he fully regains his senses, I must get to
him! Before he realizes where he is, I must know who he is and what kind of
danger he is preparing for me!"
He walked quickly down the corridor, reached the door out
of breath, and stopped. He did not want to burst in suddenly. He did not want
the gardener to see him so agitated.
He waited. He did not open the door until he had calmed
down; then, with all his might, he put on a cheerful, calm expression and
stepped into the room with a happy smile.
Dada welcomed him with joy. She was bustling around and
hovering over her wounded friend so much that the Padrone’s heart
constricted—how could he possibly take this "happiness" away from the
girl?
He caressed Dada with a smile and praised her:
"It is because you have taken such good care of him
that he has gotten better; it is your merit!"
The girl was beaming with joy. The Padrone greeted the
gardener with a smile, although the gardener noticed something quite different
in his eyes and did not even flinch; he smiled back at him, which the
experienced Padrone immediately understood.
"Hmph!.. Shameless!"
He thought to himself, then with a warm look and a soft
voice, asked Dada to leave them. Dada refused, not wanting to leave the room,
but the Padrone immediately found a task for her:
- Go down to the kitchen and prepare a grated fruit salad
with your own hands; make sure to pick them one by one, and don't let any wormy
ones slip in! You know he needs plenty of well-selected vitamins right now!
Dada first looked at the gardener; she did not want to
leave him, but the gardener smiled back in response, and the girl happily
agreed, signaling with her hand that she would be back in five minutes, and
rushed out of the room.
The Padrone then turned to the caretakers and announced a
break until he himself called for them.
The gardener watched in silence.
The Padrone grabbed a chair, pulled it close to the bed,
and sat astride it like a horse, resting his hands on the back of the chair. In
his hand, a gold-plated Parabellum flashed, its barrel pointed at the gardener.
The gardener stared at him, pale, though the Padrone read
more firmness than fear in his eyes. He stared at him silently for a few
seconds, then asked in the sternest tone possible:
- Who are you?!
LEX. February 11,
2016, Thursday.
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